


Keeping Track

by pocketmouse



Category: Doctor Who
Genre: Community: kink_bingo, Episode: s06e02 Day of the Moon, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-06
Updated: 2011-09-06
Packaged: 2017-10-23 12:11:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,610
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/250153
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pocketmouse/pseuds/pocketmouse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Amy and Rory, on the run during Day of the Moon.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Keeping Track

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to such_heights for betaing this. Written for the writing on the body square for kink_bingo.

Amy collapsed wearily onto the bed, not caring that she was getting it wet. The duvet was sticky and plasticky beneath her skin, cheap hotel fabric. The weather was too warm to need it anyway; they'd strip it from the bed before they went to sleep. She rubbed at her arm again, but the stubborn black smudges remained.

"Can't get it all off?" Rory asked quietly. He put down the notebook he'd been copying.

"No," Amy muttered. She gave up, her skin now angry and red as well as full of creepy hashmarks. "I hate this." Rory, she noticed, looked spotless, even with his habit of writing on his face first and saving his arms and chicken legs for later. He'd showered first, and his hair was soft and fluffy from the hairdryer. The only evidence that he'd marked himself as well was the smears of black on the towel he'd wrapped around his hips.

"Here," he stood from the chair, exchanging the notebooks for a plastic bottle. He sat down next to her on the bed, tugging off his towel as he did so.

"What're you doing?" she asked, looking up at him. Her eyes darted to the door, checking that it was locked.

"Surgical spirit," he said, wetting the cloth with the bottle. "Grabbed it when River and I got the food. Took me a while to find it, they call it rubbing alcohol over here." He ran the cloth carefully over her skin. It still took some scrubbing, but the marks began to disappear.

"Clever," she said, then after a minute, when it became clear Rory wasn't going to hand the towel over, "thanks." Rory didn't say anything, he just kissed her cheek.

Amy felt a flush fall across her cheeks. Well. That was new. She decided to blame it on her apparently out-of-whack hormones. She concentrated instead on the way Rory was carefully going over every inch of skin she'd had exposed today, checking for and rubbing away any marks he found. He was so careful. So — quiet.

"You okay?" she asked.

"I'm fine," he said, but his grin was small, one she recognized as saying 'I'm doing what Amy wants, right?'

"Hey." she reached up to cup his cheek, and Rory paused. She tugged at the back of his neck and he hesitated for a moment, then let her pull him closer. She kissed his lips — they were chapped, rough from the dry weather and hot sun. Rory kissed her carefully, still holding back.

"Rory?"

He closed his eyes and rested his forehead against hers for a second. Then he kissed her cheek again and smiled, brighter this time. "I'm fine. Just, you know me, worrier."

"You like it better when we have an actual plan," Amy said diplomatically.

"Yeah." Methodically Rory capped the bottle of spirits and put it on the bedside table. His towel he pushed to the floor. Rory was terrible with towels, one of his few typical bloke-like qualities. He turned back to her, wrapping his arms around her, so they were face to face.

"Not exactly what we expected, when we got the letter, huh?" Amy bit her lip, thinking of the Doctor — the lake.

"No." Rory swiped a hand across her cheekbone, and for a moment she thought she'd been crying. "He'll be okay," he whispered.

"Rory —"

"We can't do anything about it right now. The only thing we CAN do is exactly what we ARE doing, which is what the Doctor asked us to do," Rory reminded her. Rory was better at compartmentalizing than her. She supposed it came from two thousand years of sentry duty, because she remembered a time when he'd protest loudly about the slightest uncertainty.

"It's so frustrating, though," she said, taking the change of subject eagerly. "I feel like we aren't learning anything."

"That's what the notebooks are for," Rory reminded her. "Canton will collect them in the morning, and they'll be copied and locked up somewhere secure." That was the plan, anyway. They had no way to check if it was working.

"We've been running in circles for a _month_ , Rory. Nothing else we've ever done has taken a month, let alone three. The Doctor doesn't play the long game." She stopped when she remembered who she was talking to. "Sorry."

Rory kissed her again. "It's fine. I know what you mean."

"It doesn't feel like every other time. It feels like it's taking over my life." She gestured to her skin, just setting down from its angry redness. "Swallowing me whole."

Rory smoothed a hand over Amy's arm, following the curve of muscle, thumb pausing at the scar from when she was twelve and angry at the latest psychiatrist and had thrown some dishes at a wall, getting cut for her trouble. "I won't let it," he said, and she knew he meant the words as a promise. He half sat up, reaching over her to grab something else from the table, but she couldn't see what it was before he was nudging at her again, urging her to roll over onto her back.

"We might be in the desert, but you've been wearing jeans and long sleeves," he said, hands brushing over her arms as he said this, encouraging her to spread her arms out to her sides. "Pushed up to the elbow at most. Compared to a normal day, that's practically modest for you."

"Hey," she said, protesting a little, though she could hear the tease in his voice. She let him arrange her on the bed, flat on her stomach. Her towel had slid down past her hips, and she smiled a little as he tucked it _higher_. "Only you," she murmured.

"Shh," he replied. "Working." She drew her arms back in and he let her, and she folded them, using them to pillow her head. Rory shifted again on the bed, and she felt him straddle her legs, weight braced on either side of her. "Even on a normal day for you, no matter what jokes we make about your short skirts or your ridiculous kissogram outfits, there's still a lot of skin that no one ever sees." He drew her hair away from the nape of her neck and she shivered. "No one but you and me."

There was a soft pop, then something small was pressed against her back. It was thin and hard, smaller than a finger, but she'd felt the sensation enough over the past weeks that she recognized the drag of the felt marker instantly.

Rory moved the pen with sure strokes, dragging it softly over the wide plain of her back. She concentrated quietly, but she couldn’t tell what he was writing. It was definitely writing, not drawing, she could tell that much, but the marker pulled at her skin, creating pressure and drag in unfamiliar patterns, and she couldn’t make a mental image of what he was doing.

"You gonna tell me what that says?" she asked after a minute. He'd started midway down her back — just below where the band would rest if she was wearing a bra.

Rory didn't reply. She tried to visualize it again, but she couldn't. He shifted forward a little, leaning closer to write something else, and she could feel his breath on her skin. She was suddenly very aware of his hands, one splayed warm and wide over her hip, the other resting against her back as it held the marker. His legs were pressed close on either side of her thighs, but the towel was still between the two of them. His hands and the pen were the true points of contact, and she felt like a circuit, wired with electricity as the pen curved against her skin.

"What does it say?" she asked again, chest tight, warmth pooling between her legs.

At last Rory sank back, capping the marker with an audible pop. She shivered as his hands traced over the words he'd just written. "It says —" his voice was rough and he stopped, cleared his throat, and tried again. "It says 'No matter where you go, I'll be with you. You'll never be lost, because I will find you. And you'll never be alone, because I love you.'"

Amy felt her heart clench, in the way she used to think was fear, fear of being loved. But it wasn't fear — it was love, gutting and deep, the kind she'd only ever felt for one person. She twisted around underneath him, and Rory let her, until she was facing him. His eyes were dark, face filled with familiar lust. He didn't always let her see it — this possessive side, that she knew frightened him a little, but when she pulled him down he didn't hesitate, lips meeting hers with fierce passion.

They broke apart at last, both breathless. Rory's nose brushed against her cheek, his breathing wet and heavy against her neck.

"I love you," she said. "You sentimental idiot."

Rory laughed. "Hey, you wouldn't let me redo our wedding vows."

" _You_ wouldn't change the paperwork to say "Rory Pond."

Rory nipped at her neck lightly. "I'll think about it. Maybe when we're old and grey and renewing our vows on our fiftieth anniversary."

Amy wrapped her arms around him, feeling his weight press her against the mattress. "You going to hold it over my head for fifty years?"

"Forty-nine years and two months," he corrected. "And no, I fully expect fifty years of being _called_ 'Mister Pond,' the paperwork's just the reward at the end."

Amy kissed him again. "As if I'd let you get away after only fifty years."


End file.
